


The Last Time

by TheWalkingGrimes



Series: Tales of District Four [20]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Discussions of Murder, Finnick and his unhealthy coping mechanisms, Gen, Quarter Quell (Hunger Games), Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Trafficking, uncomfortable power dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29004324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWalkingGrimes/pseuds/TheWalkingGrimes
Summary: Before the Quarter Quell, President Snow has one last talk with Finnick.
Relationships: Finnick Odair & Coriolanus Snow, Mentioned Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair, Mentioned Finnick Odair & Katniss Everdeen, Mentioned Finnick Odair & Mags
Series: Tales of District Four [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018845
Comments: 13
Kudos: 28





	The Last Time

  
  


~~_Hands_ ~~ _._

_This is fine._

~~_Teeth_ ~~ _._

_You’re fine._

~~_Lips_ ~~ _._

_It doesn’t matter._

_~~Hands again~~. _

_None of this matters._

  
  
  


Really, it shouldn’t matter. Because in a few days the impossible will happen.

  
  


Finnick is going back into the arena.

  
  


It’s something that only happens in his nightmares. Usually it’s Annie in there with him, but sometimes it’s Lotan or his mother or little Adi or even Haf will make a surprise appearance. Trisha’s usually there too, except she’s not _with_ him. She’s almost always trapped in his net. 

When she’s not, it’s because he’s trapped in _hers._

Mags, though. Before the Quell announcement, she’d never been in there with him. If she ever had been, it probably would have been absurd enough that he would have laughed himself awake, because how ridiculous a situation would _that_ be?

(He’s tried to laugh himself awake a few times since the Quell was announced, with the same result every time.)

In a few days, he will be going back into the arena with Mags at his side. Most likely on his back. Even _more_ ridiculously, she won’t be the only person he has to protect. Because there’s a girl going in as well who represents the last flickering hope of the Districts. If she dies, so does that hope. 

So... she can’t die. 

And it should be simple - those of them who are going in with some idea of the plan need to just ally and keep each other alive long enough for Plutarch and Beetee to enact whatever secretive extraction plan they’ve been working on behind the scenes. Unfortunately, the plan is _so_ secretive that the girl in question has no idea that half of the tributes have agreed to put her life before theirs. 

Really, a stroke of genius whoever thought of that, especially considering that Katniss is so standoffish she opted to spend her time before the Tribute Parade hanging out with a horse rather than have to speak to any of them.

Finnick will admit that he may have fucked up his introduction. He’d approached her the same way he had with Johanna, except he’s now remembering how long it had taken to wear Jo down and time is a sparse luxury at the moment. At the same time - what other options did he have, with everyone’s eyes and ears tuned toward them? Anything more earnest would have been flagged immediately as suspicious. 

The body flush with his lets out a moan of pleasure and hopefully this is almost over. Which _\- this is fine._ Really, it is. When weighed against the overwhelming pressure of being one of the most capable victors in on this little conspiracy of theirs, and the possibility that he might die in a few days, or be forced to kill someone he considers a friend, or the very real probability that he will not be able to keep Mags alive long enough to be rescued… the sex is not a big deal. 

It was just a _surprise,_ is all. Not that he had entirely dismissed the possibility, but he’d deemed it pretty unlikely. Tributes are kept strictly guarded in the Tribute Center - imprisoned in the lap of luxury (although certainly an improvement from when Mags was a girl and she said they used to keep the tributes in literal cages). As far as Finnick is aware this is a rule that’s never been bent or broken. 

Then again, much of what happens in the Capitol occurs in the shadows, and Finnick isn’t naive enough to believe he’s learned even a tenth of their secrets. Regardless, victors aren’t supposed to be tributes either so apparently this is the year for breaking rules. 

Speaking of secrets. This might be almost over, yet Finnick isn’t even perversely looking forward to extracting his regular method of ‘compensation.’ No, not here. This is not the first time that he’s had an appointment in the guest wing of the Presidential Mansion, and he has always been too nervous to ask anyone for a secret where all the walls definitely have ears… and probably eyes. As far as Finnick is aware, Snow has absolutely no idea the type of leverage - however minimal - he tries to claim back for himself every time his body is sold, and he can’t afford to show his hand when they’re about to play the final round.

His patron is finished with him _(Hopefully. Because even though sex is the least of his concerns right now, he wasn’t as prepared for this as he usually is when he arrives in the Capitol, and if he could physically crawl out of his skin right now he would.)_ and when she lies down next to Finnick there’s a strange look on her face.

“Do you feel ready?” His patron - normally Finnick would have done a better job of trying to get her name, they don’t always want to give that away but he’s gotten good at coaxing it out of them, except he’d been too busy fighting the reckless impulse to say ‘no’ - asks him. 

And _ah,_ now Finnick can identify that look: concern. 

Finnick smirks at her, giving his patron that up and down look that they always fall for. “Why, are you trying to sneak some insider information for the betting pools?”

It’s a joke of course. His patron _has_ to be in Snow’s inner circle if she’s able to pull enough strings to have sex with a victor in Snow’s Presidential Mansion - or, no. Not even a victor: a tribute. Finnick has to keep reminding himself of that, it feels so unreal.

His patron laughs. Snow’s ‘friends’ almost always mysteriously come away with the most money from betting on the Games. Mysteriously to others of course - Finnick has been in the rooms before where those in Snow’s favor gather to watch unaired footage of the tributes during training and discuss the arena plans in-depth and personally with Gamemakers. 

“Maybe I’m trying to decide where to invest my hard-earned money.” She tells him, trailing a hand up his chest. “Think of this like a sponsor deal.”

Finnick catches her hand and pulls it up to his mouth. “I thought that’s what we just did.” He says softly, closing his lips over the tips of her fingers.

Disgusting. He’s _disgusting,_ but walking away empty-handed always feels like a waste and right now he can’t afford to throw away any opportunity. This won’t be like the first time he went into the arena - he’s only _one_ of the favorites this time and there’s a possibility he won’t be in an official alliance with Twelve. Since the Capitol wouldn’t understand real _value_ if it smacked them in the face, Mags likely won’t be getting any sponsors. So he has to plan for any of his sponsor funds to be split two ways. 

He deliberately shies away from any further thoughts of Mags. She hasn’t been back to the Capitol in years and even though Finnick had missed her, it had been a strange relief to not have someone actively worrying after him all the time. She’s not the only District Four victor who knows where he goes off, but as far as Finnick knows she’s the only one who has ever shed tears over it. 

And her face had been so _angry_ when the Capitol attendants had stopped him from getting into the elevator to go back up to their floor after the Parade -

No. Focus on the here and now. Getting through this encounter and squeezing as much money out of this Capitol asshole as he can while actively ignoring how degraded it makes him feel. 

And hopefully, this will be the last time.

That’s the thought he keeps repeating in his head when he - _slowly, not too hasty, you’re supposed to be toying with her_ \- releases his patron’s fingers from his mouth and tells her honestly, “Your money will be safely placed with me. I’ve been ready for this for _years.”_

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Finnick does end up having to get her off again, but then she leaves him with a promise of an astronomical pledge to accompany the territorial red lipstick mark on his cheek. He even talks her into putting it toward the general District Four fund, which will make it easier for Meri to funnel the money toward Mags in the unlikely event that _Finnick_ gets offed first.

He’s sitting in the bed with the sheets bunched around his waist, waiting for the Capitol attendants to come back to escort him back to the Tribute center and trying to decide if it’s worth it to try putting his Parade outfit on. 

Of course, _outfit_ is not really the word he would use to describe it _._

  
  


_(“What. The fuck. Is_ that _?”_

 _Vel looks shocked at the profanity - he isn’t used to Finnick not being nice and agreeable. But Finnick couldn’t give less of a shit, because the outfit Vel has pulled out for him isn’t an_ outfit _at all._

_It’s a net._

_Finnick wishes he could strangle Vel with it. Forget the fact that he’ll be paraded in front of Panem basically naked - it’s made out of some kind of material that is clearly meant to replicate the vines from Finnick’s arena._

_“It’s an homage,” Vel explains, probably thinking that this is yet another occasion of Finnick just ‘not getting’ his art. It’s an old joke between them, but Finnick is not in the mood for kidding right now. “The net, from your Games-”_

_“The one I killed people with.” Finnick points out flatly. “The net I trapped Trisha with. That net. That’s the net you want me to wear?”_

_Vel visibly falters, losing the forced cheer that he’s been masking himself with since he first saw Finnick as a tribute again. “I don’t have an alternate.” Vel replies, and he at least has the decency to sound somewhat sorry. “And this will get you sponsors.”_

_Much as he hates to admit it, Finnick knows the stylist is right. And not just because of the insanely revealing nature of the outfit._

_The net_ is _a reminder of his Games - and of his kills. People will see it and remember his cunning for crafting something so useful from nothing but vines. They’ll remember his patience as he set his trap and waited for other tributes to fall prey to it. They’ll remember his detachment as he wiped the blood on his beautiful trident away on his shorts._

_He wonders if people will look at him in the net and see Trisha’s face._

_“Is there a trident that goes with it?” Finnick asks, feeling much more tired than he probably ought to this early in the game._

_“No,” Replies Vel ruefully. “I wanted one, but no weapons allowed. Not even plastic ones.”)_

  
  


Finnick eyes the pile of fake vines on the floor with disdain and decides to take his chances. He could easily figure out how to replicate the knots Vel had constructed, but he doubts the attendants can. Which means they’ll probably give him real clothes before driving him back - or they’ll just escort him in the nude. Fine. Not like it would be the first time.

Just as he’s settled on this resolution the door across the suite opens and Finnick’s attention snaps over to it, expecting the same Capitol attendants who dragged him over here in the first place.

“Hello Finnick.”

President Snow strolls into the room casually and it takes every modicum of self-control Finnick has cultivated over the years not to grab the duvet and pull it up to his chin to cover himself like a child.

Instead he keeps his posture relaxed and casual and intones carefully, “Hello, Mr. President.”

“Please, no need to get up on my account.” Snow says as he takes a seat in a nearby armchair so that he’s facing the bed. He’s in a _joking_ mood today. Excellent. “I apologize if I’ve caught you off-guard.”

“Not at all.” Finnick lies, and they both know it’s a lie, but that’s all part of the game isn’t it? “Although I am honored that you took a moment from your busy schedule to spare time for me. I imagine I must be fairly low on your list of priorities right now.”

“Oh Finnick, you mustn’t think so lowly of yourself.” Snow reaches for the decanter of wine that Finnick’s patron left sitting out on the side table and pours himself a glass. He doesn’t offer Finnick one. “You’ve always been such an important asset to the Capitol, and by extension, to me. I want you to know that hasn’t changed just because you’re a tribute once again.”

As if that message wasn’t made perfectly clear when he arranged for one of his allies to fuck Finnick under Snow’s own roof, then walked in on him still naked and covered in sweat, makeup, and sex.

_This doesn’t change anything. You’re still Capitol property._

Finnick ignores the rapid butterfly beating of his heart against his rib cage. Snow can’t know. If Snow knew, he wouldn’t be sitting here sipping wine and casually talking to Finnick. He would be rounding them all up and making them watch while he shoots their loved ones in the head. 

_(His heart stutters as it flashes in his brain - bright green eyes wide with horror, calling out to him in panicked betrayal right before everything splatters red.)_

“I never doubted it, sir.”

“Really? I wouldn’t be surprised if you had.” Snow shakes his head. “Being reaped again, just another victor amongst a parade of other favorites… I imagine it’s easy to feel insignificant and powerless in that scenario. Or worse, like you’re being punished somehow. Which I’m sure must be frustrating, after all the work you’ve put in to regain my trust.”

Snow pauses, expecting an answer. There’s a very careful line that Finnick can tread here - he needs to appear like he’s trying to appease Snow, to gain his favor. 

Allies. He needs to seem like he wants to be allies. Snow will like that.

“I never thought I was being punished.” Finnick says truthfully. “But maybe an unfortunate casualty to someone _else’s_ punishment.”

Snow sets his wine down and straightens up. 

“Yes, well, I do wish things could have turned out differently.” And Finnick thinks maybe he _does_ mean that on some level. Half of the districts in rebellion certainly wasn’t how Snow was hoping to spend what was supposed to be his glory years this far into his presidency. But there is no doubt in Finnick’s mind that Snow is getting a perverse enjoyment out of seeing all of the victors who have ever tried his patience over the years be humiliated and prepare to kill each other as entertainment for the masses. “But I wouldn’t count yourself as a casualty just yet. Some of my sources tell me that you may be favored above any of the other tributes to come out victorious.”

For a moment, Finnick’s heart stops beating altogether.

_Oh god, he knows. He knows, and he’s just dragging this out, and he’s going to kill us all, or he’s going to torture us first, and he’ll bring Annie here and -_

He forces his brain to slow down and _think._ Snow didn’t say come out _alive_ . He said _victorious._ Why would he say that? Why would the rebel plot make Finnick be favored above any of the other tributes?

“What sources would those be?” Finnick asks, for lack of a safer question.

“The Gamemakers,” Snow says. “And, frankly, myself. Tell me Finnick - how would you like for this to have been your last appointment?”

 _A whole fucking lot, but you already know that._ “I’m not following.”

“If you win,” Snow tells him, picking up the wine again but not drinking it, “you will be a victor of _unprecedented_ popularity. Not only would you be the first victor to win the Games twice in this hypothetical scenario, but it would be at the expense of twenty-three other victors. Many of them useless, admittedly; some of them considerably less so. That would cause the spotlight to shine brighter on the remaining victors - especially the winner of the Quell.”

He means victors like Katniss and Peeta, but also Cashmere, Gloss, and Enobaria. Even if they might not be as popular as Finnick, they still see their fair share of Capitolites. Less than when they were younger, but regardless… it’s not difficult to understand what Snow’s implying. 

It’s also an extremely unlikely scenario. Not the least because Johanna has already promised him _(almost near-silently, when she pretended to bite his ear as a greeting before the Parade)_ that she will kill him - _if we fail_ was left unspoken, so that if anyone did happen to overhear her they would think it was the playful threat of a competitor, not the loyal pledge of a fellow collaborator.

Still, the prospect is so nauseating that Finnick doesn’t have to fake the appalled look on his face. 

“I understand that might not be as appealing as it was during your first Games.” Snow reads his discomfort, as Finnick hoped he would. “Which is why I am willing to offer you a trade. If you do what I ask and continue to serve the Capitol faithfully in the arena, not only will the Gamemakers do what they can to ease your way to victory, but I will make it known to the citizens of the Capitol that you are no longer available.”

This, genuinely, stuns him.

“What?” 

“You will be free to do as you wish with your time.” Snow continues, as if it’s that simple. “You’ll still be asked to come to the Capitol for the Games, but only for mentoring. People will be disappointed of course, but they’ll understand. Even the most debaucherous boy must grow up. Fall in love, get married, have a family - who knows? They may enjoy seeing you discover responsibility. It might even provide them with a necessary distraction from their heartbreak over their poor Star-Crossed Lovers.”

Once again, Finnick has to remind himself that Snow _can’t know_ about their plan. He _can’t,_ but it seems so impossible that he would be offering everything Finnick has ever wanted as a tempting alternative. 

“What would that trade be?” Finnick asks, even though he has a suspicion he already knows the answer - there’s only so many ways he can _serve the Capitol_ in the arena and he’s positive Snow isn’t talking about sex.

“In order to be victorious, you will need to take out Katniss Everdeen.” Snow says coldly. “Her death cannot be as simple as a Gamemaker’s ploy - that would be seen as cheap. It needs to be more personal, to help the Districts understand that it is not _them_ versus _us._ One of their own needs to be the one to put her down.”

No surprises there. 

The only surprise is the flash of _temptation_ that Finnick feels. Just for a moment. 

More than anything, that temptation is fed by the guilt that has been gnawing away at him ever since Plutarch recruited him for this suicide mission. Guilt that only answers to one name: _Annie._

He hasn’t told her. For one thing, she would have insisted on going in with him if she knew and Finnick would _never_ have been able to focus on keeping Katniss alive if Annie were there with him. The only way he’d been able to convince her not to volunteer in the event that Mags or Meri were Reaped was by insisting that if she died in the arena he would walk straight into the next Gamemakers trap he encountered. If she knew there was a possibility they could both get out, Finnick’s not sure he could have talked her out of it.

And for another… if something happens, it’s safer for her not to know anything. 

Which means she is sitting at home, thinking she’s about to watch him fight to death against twenty-three other victors, with no idea what retribution could be coming her way if their plan succeeds. Plutarch promised to get her to safety but has refused to share any details about _how_ he’ll accomplish that.

Snow’s offer is simple. Kill Katniss, and he’ll do whatever he can to help Finnick get out of the arena alive. And then he’ll have everything he ever wanted. 

He’ll be _free._

Except… not really. Annie will still be held over his head. A relationship in public would mean public consumption - to be commercialized the way that Katniss and Peeta’s has been. Annie being trotted out in front of thousands of hungry fans in her wedding dress, reporters hounding them about children, cameras being shoved in their faces at every turn. Twenty-three children will still die every year, and he’ll be forced to mentor, and maybe if Annie’s yanked back into the public eye she will too. 

And then _oh,_ wouldn’t it be so interesting to see the child of two victors go into the Hunger Games?

They will never be free. Not while Snow lives. Not while the Capitol remains in power. 

Reality sinks in, and shame follows quickly after. How selfish is he, that he would consider sacrificing the country’s greatest hope for his own possibility of a happy ever after? 

( _Lotan_ _was right after all. Their parents would be ashamed of him.)_

But it strikes Finnick suddenly that this offer is still a _good_ thing. It means Snow thinks he’s still in control. He really does believe Finnick is nothing more than Capitol property - after all, he’s killed for them before, what’s one more girl to add to his list of victims? 

“Why me?” Asks Finnick, leaning back on his arms. “Not to undersell my own abilities, but I’m not the strongest fighter going into the arena. Nor the most vicious.”

He could probably go head to head with any of the other ‘Careers’ individually and maybe even best them if he were fast and lucky enough. But each of them have an equally physically competent District partner at their back. Giving Cashmere and Gloss or Brutus and Enobaria (or all four of them together) the order to hunt down and kill Katniss would make more sense. Snow probably has, to be fair, but he’s put considerable effort into this offer and there has to be a reason for that. He has to know Finnick will be loyal to Mags and thereby excluded from the traditional pack. Why would he even bother?

Snow sips at his wine with dignity, before giving Finnick a red-gummed smile. “No, but you do have your own special abilities that I think will make you uniquely suited to this task. If I recall, in your Games it wasn’t only the sponsors that you charmed. After years of practice with my closest advisors, winning over a silly girl in pretty little-girl dresses should be no trouble. Am I mistaken?”

Hearing his own words echoed back at him from earlier _almost_ makes Finnick start. Plutarch wasn’t exaggerating - Snow really is keeping a close eye on Katniss. Which also means he likely heard Finnick mention the secrets. This would be more disconcerting if Snow weren’t essentially _handing_ Finnick the excuse to ally with Katniss on a silver platter.

Finnick really _isn’t_ walking away from this appointment empty-handed. No secret his patron could have whispered to him could be more valuable than what Snow is giving him: the freedom to earn Katniss’s trust with no fear of coming across as sympathetic to the rebel cause or tipping Snow off to their plot. In fact, he’s suddenly in a better position than any of the other tributes.

 _Thank you President Snow, you’ve just officially sealed the first Four-Twelve alliance,_ Finnick thinks gleefully, but keeps his face impassive. 

“No. You’re not mistaken.”

There has to be a catch. There _must._

But Snow just finishes his wine. “Thank you Finnick. I knew I could rely on you. Your agreeableness has always been your most admirable quality, after all.”

This man has an eidetic memory. Finnick knows why those words are burned into _his_ brain, but he doesn’t want to dwell on why Snow considers that conversation worth preserving in his own mind.

 _I cannot wait to watch you die. I hope you drown in your own blood when you do,_ Finnick thinks, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from shaking with rage.

That’s inner-Finnick though. Outer-Finnick has just agreed to take out the greatest threat to Snow’s power and would probably be feeling pretty comfortable in his own position right about now. 

So he stretches, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and drawls, “When the Capitol attendants escort me back to the Tribute center, would you mind asking them to bring me some clothes? The net has come unraveled I’m afraid.”

“Of course,” Snow replies benevolently, giving Finnick a smile that says, _See how good I can be to you when you do what you’re told?_ That’s what this whole maneuver has been - the classic stick and the carrot. He stands up and his knees seem to shake a little as he does.

Finnick eyes the tremor like a shark preparing for the kill.

“Something silk, please.” He adds. Just to be a brat.

For a moment Snow almost looks like he’s about to express his annoyance, but instead his smile just turns strained. He looks _tired._

“Only the best for the Capitol’s favorite victor.”

Then he leaves and closes the door behind him.

  
  
  
  


It’s the last conversation they will ever have.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Actual photo of Finnick in this scene:
> 
> https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/qQPUPBlaiVYrsXg5QM1QQYVgH34=/0x0:900x500/1400x1400/filters:focal(378x178:522x322):format(jpeg)/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/49493993/this-is-fine.0.jpg


End file.
